


A Carrot or a Stick

by Echo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt Mycroft Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-07-06 08:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15882693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo/pseuds/Echo
Summary: Mycroft was a man of incredible poise and grace, so it was telling that Greg could see the stiffness in his gait as he approached.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a/gifts).



> For n_a, who requested Mystrade h/c for the Rupert Graves Birthday Project

Mycroft was a man of incredible poise and grace, so it was telling that Greg could see the stiffness in his gait as he approached.

He watched as the man was brought back to the bare room where they had been kept for… some period of time. Days, at least. In the absence of a watch, natural light and regular meals, it was hard for either of them to gauge the true duration with any degree of certainty.

Greg stood, not for any particular reason except that it seemed to be the thing to do. The impulse worked out in his favor though, as one of Mycroft’s escorts took the opportunity to give him an unexpected shove through the doorway. Normally Mycroft would have foreseen such an action even before the thought had occurred to the guard, but this time he stumbled forward, unprepared. Greg stepped quickly into the space, half catching the man and half allowing Mycroft to catch himself.

The guards were gone before either of them had a chance to retaliate. Entirely a moot point, of course, given that they had any means to do so even had the men elected to stay. Greg focused his attention on the man in his arms.

“Thirsty?” Greg offered, deciding that practicalities were probably the first order of business. Mycroft seemed to consider the question for some seconds, before very slightly deflating.

“Best not, but thank you.” Mycroft’s answer was expected, even if not particularly welcome. It was the one Mycroft had given each time Greg had offered. It didn’t really make sense, but interrogating him on the matter seemed like adding insult to injury.

No longer shaky on his feet, Mycroft had leaned a little more heavily into Greg’s side. It was a sign of weakness which would have been all but imperceptible to anyone else. Greg countered by slipping a loose arm around his waist, ready to tighten at a moment’s notice.

“Something to eat? Bit of a nap? Day at the spa?” suggested Greg.

Mycroft grimaced, a valiant but ultimately ineffective attempt at a smile. “I should quite like to sit, if you wouldn’t mind assisting me?”

It was an awkward maneuver, getting the two of them down onto the floor without causing any more pain than necessary. Mycroft’s joints were stiff from pain and cold, and since his last departure he had taken to cradling his right hand close to his chest, fingers curled gently in. Greg made a mental note to ask about it later.

Eventually though, they were both on the floor. Greg’s back was to the rough cement wall, with Mycroft sitting in front of him, very gingerly leaning back onto Greg’s chest. It was the best arrangement Greg could offer, under the circumstances.

The skin Mycroft’s back, at the points it made contact with Greg’s chest, was warm through his shirt. Warmer than it should be, given then general chill of the holding rooms. Greg considered the possibility of a fever, but the heat didn’t seem to spread to Mycroft’s fingers which were like ice in Greg’s hands. Greg wrapped the frozen digits with his own, but refrained from rubbing them in case it had genuinely progressed to frostbite.

“Did they give you any indication what they want this time?” He asked instead.

Mycroft tilted his head in the negative. “To date it seems their primary goal in this ordeal is to make me miserable.”

“You and me both, Love,” Greg added, a hint of his frustration making it through in his tone. He rearranged Mycroft’s hands to press against his chest, then used his now free hand to brush the sweat-damp curl from Mycroft’s forehead.

He took the opportunity to test the man’s temperature, noting warmth but nothing that would be unreasonable in the circumstances. More alarming was the clamminess of his skin. Mycroft was not drinking enough fluids to survive sweating them out again at this rate.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to drink some of the water? I’ve been having plenty, I’m pretty sure it’s not drugged.”

Mycroft sighed very slightly, angling his gaze away towards the barren white walls. “It is not a matter of desire, Gregory. That water is not meant for me.”

Greg’s hand stilled where it had been stroking idly at Mycroft’s hair.

“You might need to explain that one to me, Love,” he nudged, sensing a story that had been withheld. A story he was very clearly not going to like.

Mycroft was silent for some time, not in avoidance but in contemplation. Greg waited him out, testing his own patience in the process.

“They perceive it as a trade,” Mycroft eventually explained, voice low and eyes wary, “a kindness given, and a price extracted. You are supplied with clean water, for so long as I go thirsty. You will have access to regular meals…”

“So long as you… What? Starve yourself to death in payment?” He made his disapproval clear with his tone. “You know that’s bullshit, right?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I have gone far longer than this without eating, Gregory. The melodrama is unnecessary. But yes, that is, in essence, the nature of our agreement.”

“It’s a shit agreement. Don’t play their game.” Greg tightened his arms around Mycroft’s waist, pulling him closer. Mycroft’s sudden, sharp inhalation was enough to reinforce Greg’s earlier concern about the abnormal warmth of Mycroft’s back. He pressed his lips together, unsure what the reception would be to his next request. “Can I see?”

Mycroft exhaled in a way that very much wanted to be a sigh, but was curtailed by exhaustion.

“I doubt you will find it to your liking.” He answered, but leaned forward obligingly, much to Greg’s surprise.

Greg eased the fabric of Mycroft’s shirt up a short way. The normally pale, freckled skin was flushed an angry pink, with large raised welts crisscrossing from side to side. Here and there were smears of a darker red, dried blood from where the impacts had been sharper, heavier. A belt, most likely, with the buckle making contact with flesh. Greg’s own back itched in sympathy as he lowered the fabric back down. He drew Mycroft back into their earlier resting position and started a very slight rocking motion from side to side.

“Yeah, you’re right about that. That looks pretty nasty.” He agreed, resuming his gentle carding of Mycroft’s hair. “Dare I ask what that was in trade for?”

Mycroft huffed, as though amused by the thought. “In some matters, I’m afraid, they have not quite grasped the concept that in negotiations, the stick is traditionally balanced by a carrot.”

Greg remained silent as Mycroft carefully rearranged himself, giving him space to form the words.

“In this particular case,” Mycroft continued, a little softer than before, “they offered to beat me, or to beat you. Less so a trade as a ‘trade off’, I’m afraid.”

Greg took a careful, deep breath, then released it again. Getting angry now would serve no purpose, and probably just cause Mycroft more discomfort. “And the hand?” He prompted, “I saw you were carrying it awkwardly before.”

Mycroft glanced down at the offending appendage. “Entirely my own fault, I’m afraid,” he explained, “I had a momentary dizzy spell as I was being escorted. I fell, and landed poorly. I suspect a slight sprain, nothing more.”

Greg watched for signs of a lie, and saw none. He clenched his jaw and nodded.

“You do realize that dizziness and loss of balance are pretty classic signs of dehydration, right?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded.

“I am aware, yes.”

“And that severe dehydration can lead to all kinds of other really nasty things?”

“Yes.”

“Even brain damage?”

The pause was a little longer this time.

“Yes, I am aware of that as well.” Mycroft acknowledged, eventually.

“Please, just drink some water? I’ve been drinking plenty, and if we can get a decent amount into you before they take it away then we’ll both be fine for…”

“I have made myself clear on this point, Gregory.” Mycroft interrupted, attempting to sound stern and failing miserably. “Please do not press me further.”

Greg took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He knew full well that once Mycroft had genuinely decided to dig his heels in, then there was little to no hope persuading him otherwise. Given how exhausted the man was already, it was probably best to let the matter drop. Temporarily.

They sat in silence then for a few minutes, Mycroft gradually relaxing into Greg’s hold. Greg could feel the shift though, slow and gradual. The slight increase in weight against his chest, the slight rolling of Mycroft’s head on his shoulder.

This was the moment then. Part of Greg felt bad for taking advantage of this small moment of vulnerability, but a greater part of him screamed practicality. 

“Next time they offer you a trade,” he murmured softly, his mouth barely inches from Mycroft’s ear, “you let me pay the price, understand? Whatever it is. It’s my turn. Whatever physical pain they inflict on me, it can’t compare to the pain I would experience if I lost you. So we both get through this, yeah? Together. Promise me, love?”

Mycroft was silent in Greg’s arms, his breathing slow and muscles lax. Greg pursed his lips.

“Mycroft? Love? You with me?”

Mycroft twitched minutely. Despite himself, despite this whole situation, Greg couldn’t help but smile just a little.

“I swear, Mycroft Holmes, if you’re faking being asleep just so you don’t have to talk to me about this, you’re going to be in so much trouble.”

There was a slight twitch in the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, the tiniest hint of suppressed amusement through the pain, answering Greg’s implied question. Greg shook his head, then pressed a soft kiss to the clammy skin of Mycroft’s temple.

“You absolute bastard.” He said with gentle affection, “I swear, when we get out of here… So much trouble, you can’t even imagine.”

Another soft kiss, and then Greg let his own head fall back to rest on the cement wall behind him.

Feigned or not, rest was probably the best thing for both of them right now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful n_a commissioned an extension to this fic, in support of the Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction. I hope you like it, n_a! :D

Mycroft's head thrummed in time with his heart beat. His skin itched, his throat scratched, and he couldn't quite identify whether he was hot or cold from moment to moment.

The whole world smelled of sweat and Greg.

It felt vaguely like the time some months earlier, his encounter with a thoroughly unpleasant strain of flu. _Flu_ , he had emphasized at the time, "influenza. Not a mere cold". Greg had teased him mercilessly about it, how event the mighty had been felled by the microscopic or some variation on that theme, but Mycroft had allowed it. Played into it, even, because for all the teasing, Greg had been gentle and attentive, fetching him cool drinks and rubbing circles on his back when he coughed. It had been a novel experience, to have another person to care for him. A person who would do so by choice, out of love, rather than simple professional responsibility.

Mycroft coughed again now, and felt familiar arms tighten around him in response. Which, he supposed, explained why everything smelled of Greg. He turned his head a few degrees to bury his face in Greg's chest, and the arms adjusted to accommodate him.

"It's okay love, go back to sleep." Greg's voice was soft, reassuring. Mycroft acknowledged that he must indeed still be tired, because it took him several seconds to parse the words for their meaning. He cleared his throat, intending to explain.

"Thirsty," he scratched out, noting how the sounds cracked and popped as he spoke. Had it done that last time he had the flu? He couldn't quite remember. It was terribly frustrating.

Something changed in Greg's stillness then, an inexplicable tension that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Would you like some water?" he asked slowly. His tone was strained as well, which made no sense to Mycroft. Of course he would like some water, that's what one meant when one expressed thirst. As much as he would have liked to say as much out loud though, his throat had other ideas. Mycroft settled instead for an uneven nod, his face still smooshed up against Greg's chest.

"Okay. Okay love, just one moment. I just need to reach over here..."

The hot-cold itch that was his back flamed up into his consciousness the moment Greg moved. Mycroft inhaled sharply, locking his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut in a instinctive defence to the pain. A soft wave of reassurances drifted through the static in his ears, and a moment later he felt a gentling hand against his forehead, guiding him back into his earlier position.

Mycroft couldn't say exactly how long it took for the sharp pains to dull back into their earlier ache, but dull they did. His breathing calmed once more, and he focused on the gentle touches and the reassuring nonsense being whispered in his ear. He felt a cup touch his lips, and moved to grasp it in his own hands, only to meet resistance.

"Slowly, Mycroft. Sips, okay? Don't want to make you sick. There's plenty here, just take your time."

Something about those words rang false, but Mycroft was too sore and thirsty to analyse it. For all that he wanted to gulp the water down, he heeded Greg's warning and sipped, delighting in the feel of it against his dry throat.

A sudden crashing sound in the distance sliced through the relative silence. It was loud enough that both Mycroft and Greg jerked in surprise, causing Greg to spill a small amount of the water. With newfound energy, Greg held the cup with the remaining water to Mycroft's lips and urged him to drink.

"It's okay love, it's going to be fine. Just keep drinking, it'll be okay."

Mycroft did as he was asked, even as the distant crashing grew closer, became interspersed with the sounds of indistinct yelling.

And then, in a sickening moment of realization, he remembered where he was. The bargain he had struck. The rules.

He remembered why he was so thirsty.

He wrenched himself away from Greg, very nearly spilling the water again, and looked at him in horror. "I wasn't supposed to..."

Greg silenced him with a quick, firm press of lips to his, then looked at him with a intense blend of guilt and fear.

"I know love, but that doesn't matter now. Whatever the rules were, they're not getting any more broken than they already are. So the very best thing you can do is drink all of this, and hope that it's enough to keep you alive until help comes."

Mycroft's horror was rapidly being overwhelmed by a growing despair, but some hidden instinct had him take the plastic cup from Greg's hand and drink, all plans to sip slowly abandoned in the panic and commotion.

There was an unholy banging at the door to his cell, and he dropped the now empty cup to the cement floor. The door flew inwards, and Greg pulled Mycroft tight, curling his face away from the light and causing the pain in his back to flare up into a blaze.

He cried out involuntarily, and then everything went dark.

\---

Everything was light. Light walls. Light sheets. Light window.

And Greg. Looking at him with a soft, tired smile.

"Hello again," Greg said.

Mycroft considered a wide range of questions he would have liked answers to, then decided to be pragmatic and start from the beginning with the first thought he had.

"Again?" He asked, seeking clarification.

Greg leaned forward on his chair, elbows on knees, very carefully lifting Mycroft's hand and placing it atop his own.

"You've been in and out all afternoon. Doctor said it might take a while for you to come around fully, what with all the sedatives you've been on.

Mycroft considered this new information, and ever so slowly mentally crossed off several of the questions from his list. Identifying the next most pressing issue, he tilted his head towards Greg.

"You are injured." There was a butterfly bandage just above Greg's left eyebrow, and a blossoming bruise on his cheekbone.

A complicated expression formed on Greg's face. "I'm fine, Mycroft. Just a couple of knocks during the extraction. Already healing over. I'm not the one who's been causing everyone conniptions."

"But then... Who?"

Greg said nothing for some time, just looking at Mycroft with that complicated expression. Then, "Four days, Mycroft. Four days without water. Do you have any idea what that does to a human body?"

"Of course." replied Mycroft, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. "Fever, reduced liver function, confusion and disorientation. Continued deprivation would lead to brain damage, liver failure and death." He waited for several seconds, but was met with nothing but that same steady gaze, and silence. Then a thought occurred. Several thoughts in close succession. "Oh."

"Yes," Greg agreed, seriously. "'Oh' indeed."

Mycroft spent a few moments considering this new perspective. He did a quick stock take of his body, and his surrounds. Everything seemed more or less in place. Somewhat floaty and fuzzy, but Greg had mentioned medication earlier, so that was not unexpected.

"I appear to have recovered though, which is fortunate," he noted out loud, with a hopeful smile.

The smile was not returned.

"Fortunate? Mycroft, you could have..." Greg began, voice raised, then stopped himself. He took a deep breath, looking up at the roof before returning his gaze to Mycroft. It was a steady gaze. Steady, intense, and uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Yes. You are recovering. But that's not the bloody point, is it?"

Mycroft looked down at his hand, cradled in Greg's, saline drip embedded a short way beneath his middle knuckle.

"I suppose... Perhaps not." He swallowed, then added, somewhat optimistically, "I am sorry?". He curled his fingers just enough to feel the roughness of Greg's palm. Greg reacted by intertwining their fingers, clasping very slightly tighter.

"Damn right you're sorry," he said eventually. "You're worried because I got a little bit of bruising. Can you even begin to imagine how I felt, knowing that you were suffering like this because of me?"

Mycroft felt a sudden wave of defensiveness. "I could not let them hurt you." he argued, even as an uncomfortable, guilty pressure began to form in his chest. "Being in a relationship means making sacrifices for the ones you love."

"Being in a relationship means sharing our burdens, Mycroft. Working together. Supporting each other. Not trying to be a hero and taking the whole world on by yourself."

The pressure in his chest was expanding, making it difficult to breathe properly. He squeezed the hand holding his, and was relieved to feel the gesture returned.

"To be fair," he said quietly, "I did warn you when this first began that I lacked experience regarding the rules of relationships."

There was a deathly silence for several seconds, and Mycroft began to wonder how terribly he had mis-stepped. Then Greg spluttered out a sort of gasping, choking laugh that might have also been a sob.

"Mycroft Holmes. Love of my life and test of my sanity. Listen to me very carefully. I hope like hell that we never, ever end up in a situation like this again. But if we do, and you try to pull this kind of bullshit again, then so help me I _will_ knock you out myself and negotiate a deal of my own with our captors. Do you understand?"

Mycroft nodded. "I do. And I accept your terms. Unconditionally."

Greg leaned back in his chair. "Good. That's good. Okay." He took a shaky breath in, then let it out again slowly. "So. How do you feel?"

"I am fine." Mycroft answered automatically, then reconsidered. This was probably one of those times where the undisguised truth would be preferred. "Cotton headed. Tired. A little cold."

Greg nodded slowly. "Well the cotton brain is almost certainly the drugs. They kept you under for twenty four hours after you arrived. It was... Not great."

"I..." Mycroft began, intending another apology, but fell silent at a quick, firm squeeze to his hand.

"As for the other two, tired and a bit cold, those might be things I can help with. Do you think you can budge up a little bit?"

It was the work of less than a minute for Greg to make good on the offer of warmth, lying alongside him on the single bed. With fatigue close on its heels, Mycroft let his eyes drift shut.

The whole world smelled of bed sheets and Greg.

Mycroft drifted off to sleep.


End file.
